No Face To Mask My Soul © Surazeus 2026 07 18 I sit down with the natural sight of gain, against simple tones of exploding trees eager for commitment, since my eyes move with twirling planets of lackluster faith, if wings of peaches flutter with the clock heavier than fake sorrow rendered mute. Discerned adjustment of extensive space between faces of strangers on the street too important to sell, with radiant smiles, sounds of silence through mediocrity, if thoughts stumble blind into broken doors locked against hungry refugees of war. Gentility confined to edge of cliffs, unaccountable to agents of truth, hangs by crude rotation without new pens to calculate how soon death comes for us, if distance entrances hearts of believers stuck on the train that will never arrive. Not for all the wine of anywhere else will I go to Heaven on the glass hill because I want to buy your love with pearls as sign of holy sentiment I feel, if love stops emerging from wounded hearts, for how blue the sky always seems to be. As body with no face to mask my soul I walk the invisible beach of faith without sand in the story with no plot except when I agree without good terms, if angels have no alabaster wings, to sail the sea without the boat of skulls. Though death infers logical sense of fear, I persist without intention to build new house that is no home on signless road despite how love should act beyond the phase, if fate adorns aversion with false hope, from which is born cause of obscurity. He says he sees my picture on the wall in railway station underneath the church where zombies worship vampire as their god who plays disc jockey on the radio, if we are amazed by obvious things, broadcasting revolution in hip code. Still shored against grim ruins of the past, that buzzes facts of history in my brain, I deign to anticipate, with sly jokes, collapse of our empire just before lunch, if we share power to operate fate, because the end of the world is postponed.
Surazeus Astarius Συράζευς Αστάριος. Cartographer. Epic Poet. Hermead epic poem about Philosophers 126,680 lines of blank verse. http://tinyurl.com/AstarianScriptures
Translate
Saturday, July 18, 2026
No Face To Mask My Soul
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
Orpheus rides the train all the way around the world one hundred times to understand strange landscape of the ever-fluctuating state of mind.
ReplyDelete